H'WOOD 


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THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 


BOOKS    BY    RUDYARD    KIPLING 

Puck  of  Pook's  Hill 

They 

Traffics  and  Discoveries 

The  Five  Nations 

Just  So  Stories 

The  Just  So  Song  Book 

Kim 

The  Day's  Work 

Stalky  &  Co. 

The  Brushwood  Boy 

Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills 

From  Sea  to  Sea 

Many  Inventions 

The  Jungle  Book 

Life's  Handicap 

The  Kipling  Birthday  Book 

Under  the  Deodars,  the  Phantom  Rickshaw  and 
Wee  Willie  Winkie 

The  Light  That  Failed 

Soldier  Stories 

The  NAtn-AHKA 

Departmental  Ditties  and  Ballads  and  Barrack- 
room  Ballads 

Soldiers  Three.  The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys,  and 
In  Black  and  White 

Second  Jungle  Book 

The  Seven  Seas 

Captains  Courageous 


'  IT    WAS— IT   WAS   A   POLICEMAN  1  ' — p.    6. 


The 
Brushwood  Boy 


BY 
RUDYARD  KIPLING 


With  illustrations  by  F.  H.  Toijunsend 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1895,  1898,  1899,  1907 
By  Rudvakd  Kiplinq 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

*  It  was — it  was  a  policeman!"'    .     .        Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 
I  've  got  a  cut  on  my  thumb,'  said  he.     '  I  'm  the 
thorryl*  she    lisped" g 

'  Find  her  waiting  for  him  " 10 


«  <  T  ' 


«  < 


I  am  Policeman  Day  coming  back  from  the  City 

of  Sleep.     You  come  with  me* " 2^, 

"'This   is  precisely  what  I  expected   Hong-Kong 

would  be  like'" 26 

"  Some  one  moved  among  the   reeds "     ....  28 

"A  Sick  Thing  lay  in  bed" 32 

"The  thirty-mile   ride" 34 

"  Set  light  to  populous  cities  to  see  how  they  would 

burn" 36 

"  He  could   almost   have    sworn  that  the  kiss  was 

real" 42 

"•ThisI'  said  Georgia" 68 

" '  It  was  another  woman  * " 70 


999 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 


THE    BRUSHWOOD    BOY 

Girls  and  boys,  come  out  to  play: 
The  moon  is  shining  as  bright  as  day! 
Leave  your  supper  and  leave  your  sleep, 
And  come  with  your  playfellows  out  in  the  street! 
Up  the  ladder  and  down  the  wall — 

A  CHILD  of  three  sat  up  in  his  crib  and 
screamed  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  his 
fists  clinched  and  his  eyes  full  of  terror. 
At  first  no  one  heard,  for  his  nursery  was  in 
the  west  wing,  and  the  nurse  was  talking 
to  a  gardener  among  the  laurels.  Then 
the  housekeeper  passed  that  way,  and 
hurried  to  soothe  him.  He  was  her  pet, 
and  she  disapproved  of  the  nurse. 

"What  was  it,  then?  What  was  it, 
then?  There  's  nothing  to  frighten  him, 
Georgie  dear." 

"It  was — it  was  a  policeman !  He  was 
on  the  Down — I  saw  him!  He  came  in. 
Jane  said  he  would." 

"Policemen  don't  come  into  houses, 
dearie.     Turn  over,  and  take  my  hand." 

3 


4        THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

"I  saw  him — on  the  Down.  He  came 
here.     Where  is  your  hand,  Harper?" 

The  housekeeper  waited  till  the  sobs 
changed  to  the  regular  breathing  of  sleep 
before  she  stole  out. 

"Jane,  what  nonsense  have  you  been 
telling  Master  Georgie  about  policemen?" 

"  I  have  n't  told  him  anything." 

"  You  have.  He's  been  dreaming  about 
them." 

"We  met  Tisdall  on  Dowhead  when 
we  were  in  the  donkey-cart  this  morning. 
P'r'aps  that 's  what  put  it  into  his  head." 

"Oh!  Now  you  aren't  going  to 
frighten  the  child  into  fits  with  your  silly 
tales,  and  the  master  know  nothing  about 
it.     If  ever  I  catch  you  again,"  etc. 


A  CHILD  of  six  was  telling  himself  stories 
as  he  lay  in  bed .  It  was  a  new  power,  and 
he  kept  it  a  secret.  A  month  before  it 
had  occurred  to  him  to  carry  on  a  nursery 
tale  left  unfinished  by  his  mother,  and 
he  was  delighted  to  find  the  tale  as  it 
came  out  of  his  own  head  just  as  sur- 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY         5 

prising  as  though  he  were  listening  to  it 
"all  new  from  the  beginning."  There 
was  a  prince  in  that  tale,  and  he  killed 
dragons,  but  only  for  one  night.  Ever 
afterward  Georgie  dubbed  himself  prince, 
pasha,  giant-killer,  and  all  the  rest  (you 
see,  he  could  not  tell  any  one,  for  fear  of 
being  laughed  at),  and  his  tales  faded 
gradually  into  dreamland,  where  adven- 
tures were  so  many  that  he  could  not 
recall  the  half  of  them.  They  all  began  in 
the  same  way,  or,  as  Georgie  explained  to 
the  shadows  of  the  night-light,  there  was 
"the  same  starting-off  place" — a  pile  of 
brushwood  stacked  somewhere  near  a 
beach ;  and  round  this  pile  Georgie  found 
himself  running  races  with  little  boys 
and  girls.  These  ended,  ships  ran  high 
up  the  dry  land  and  opened  into  card- 
board boxes;  or  gilt-and-green  iron  rail- 
ings that  surrounded  beautiful  gardens 
turned  all  soft  and  could  be  walked 
through  and  overthrown  so  long  as  he 
remembered  it  was  only  a  dream.  He 
could  never  hold  that  knowledge  more 
than  a  few  seconds  ere  things  became 


6         THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

real,  and  instead  of  pushing  down  houses 
full  of  grown-up  people  (a  just  revenge) 
he  sat  miserably  upon  gigantic  doorsteps 
trying  to  sing  the  multiplication-table  up 
to  four  times  six. 

The  princess  of  his  tales  was  a  person 
of  wonderful  beauty  (she  came  from  the 
old  illustrated  edition  of  Grimm,  now  out 
of  print),  and  as  she  always  applauded 
Georgie's  valour  among  the  dragons  and 
buffaloes,  he  gave  her  the  two  finest 
names  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life — 
Annie  and  Louise,  pronounced  Annie- 
onlouise."  When  the  dreams  swamped 
the  stories,  she  would  change  into  one 
of  the  little  girls  round  the  brushwood- 
pile,  still  keeping  her  title  and  crown. 
She  saw  Georgie  drown  once  in  a  dream- 
sea  by  the  beach  (it  was  the  day  after  he 
had  been  taken  to  bathe  in  a  real  sea  by 
his  nurse) ;  and  he  said  as  he  sank:  "  Poor 
Annieai^louise !  She  '11  be  sorry  for  me 
now!"  But  "Annieanlouise,"  walking 
slowly  on  the  beach,  called,  "  'Ha!  ha!' 
said  the  duck,  laughing,"  which  to  a 
waking  mind  might  not  seem  to  bear  on 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY         7 

the  situation.  It  consoled  Georgie  at 
once,  and  must  have  been  some  kind  of 
spell,  for  it  raised  the  bottom  of  the  deep 
and  he  waded  out  with  a  twelve-inch 
flower-pot  on  each  foot.  As  he  was  strictly 
forbidden  to  meddle  with  flower-pots  in 
real  life,  he  felt  triumphantly  wicked. 


The  movements  of  the  grown-ups, 
whom  Georgie  tolerated,  but  did  not  pre- 
tend to  understand,  removed  his  world, 
when  he  was  seven  years  old,  to  a  place 
called  "Oxford-on-a- visit."  Here  Were 
huge  buildings  surrounded  by  vast 
prairies,  with  streets  of  infinite  length, 
and,  above  all,  something  called  the  "  but- 
tery," which  Georgie  was  dying  to  see, 
because  he  knew  it  must  be  greasy,  and 
therefore  delightful.  He  perceived  how 
correct  were  his  judgments  when  his  nurse 
led  him  through  a  stone  arch  into  the 
presence  of  an  enormously  fat  man,  who 
asked  him  if  he  would  like  some  bread 
and  cheese.  Georgie  was  used  to  eat  all 
rovmd  the  clock,  so  he  took  what  "but- 


8         THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

tery"  gave  him,  and  would  have  taken 
some  brown  hquid  called  "auditale"  but 
that  his  nurse  led  him  away  to  an  after- 
noon performance  of  a  thing  called 
"Pepper's  Ghost."  This  was  intensely 
thrilling.  People's  heads  came  off  and  flew 
all  over  the  stage,  and  skeletons  danced 
bone  by  bone,  while  Mr.  Pepper  himself, 
beyond  question  a  man  of  the  worst, 
waved  his  arms  and  flapped  a  long  gown, 
and  in  a  deep  bass  voice  (Georgie  had 
never  heard  a  man  sing  before)  told  of 
his  sorrows  unspeakable.  Some  grown- 
up or  other  tried  to  explain  that  the 
illusion  was  made  with  mirrors,  and  that 
there  was  no  need  to  be  frightened. 
Georgie  did  not  know  what  illusions  were, 
but  he  did  know  that  a  mirror  was  the 
looking-glass  with  the  ivory  handle  on 
his  mother's  dressing-table.  Therefore 
the  "  grown-up  "  was  "  just  saying  things  " 
after  the  distressing  custom  of  "grown- 
ups," and  Georgie  cast  about  for  amuse- 
ment between  scenes.  Next  to  him  sat 
a  little  girl  dressed  all  in  black,  her  hair 
combed  off  her  forehead  exactly  like  the 


I  VE   GOT   A   CUT   ON   MY   THUMB      SAID    HE.         I  M   THO   THORRY  1      SHE   LISPED. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY  9 

girl  in  the  book  called  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," which  had  been  given  him  on  his 
last  birthday.  The  little  girl  looked  at 
Georgie,  and  Georgie  looked  at  her.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  need  of  any  further 
introduction. 

"I've  got  a  cut  on  my  thumb,"  said 
he.  It  was  the  first  work  of  his  first  real 
knife,  a  savage  triangular  hack,  and  he 
esteemed  it  a  most  valuable  possession. 

"I'm  tho  thorry!"  she  lisped.  "Let 
me  look  —  pleathe." 

"There's  a  di-ack-lum  plaster  on,  but 
it's  all  raw  under,"  Georgie  answered, 
complying. 

"Dothent  it  hurt?" — her  gray  eyes 
were  full  of  pity  and  interest. 

"Awf'ly.  Perhaps  it  will  give  me 
lockjaw." 

"  It  lookth  very  horrid.  I  'm  tho 
thorry!"  She  put  a  forefinger  to  his 
hand,  and  held  her  head  sidewise  for  a 
better  view. 

Here  the  nurse  turned,  and  shook  him 
severely.  "  You  must  n't  talk  to  strange 
little  girls,  Master  Georgie." 


lo       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

"  She  is  n't  strange.  She 's  very  nice.  I 
like  her,  an'  I  've  showed  her  my  new  cut." 

"The  idea!  You  change  places  with 
me." 

She  moved  him  over,  and  shut  out  the 
little  girl  from  his  view,  while  the  grown- 
up behind  renewed  the  futile  explanations. 

"I  am  not  afraid,  truly,"  said  the  boy, 
wriggling  in  despair;  "but  why  don't 
you  go  to  sleep  in  the  afternoons,  same 
as  Provost  of  Oriel?" 

Georgie  had  been  introduced  to  a 
grown-up  of  that  name,  who  slept  in  his 
presence  without  apology.  Georgie 
understood  that  he  was  the  most  impor- 
tant grown-up  in  Oxford ;  hence  he  strove 
to  gild  his  rebuke  with  flatteries.  This 
grown-up  did  not  seem  to  like  it,  but  he 
collapsed,  and  Georgie  lay  back  in  his 
seat,  silent  and  enraptured.  Mr.  Pepper 
was  singing  again,  and  the  deep,  ringing 
voice,  the  red  fire,  and  the  misty,  waving 
gown  all  seemed  to  be  mixed  up  with  the 
little  girl  who  had  been  so  kind  about  his 
cut.  When  the  performance  was  ended 
she  nodded  to  Georgie,  and  Georgie  nod- 


FIND    HER   WAITING   FOR    HIM. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       ii 

ded  in  return.  He  spoke  no  more  than 
was  necessary  till  bedtime,  but  meditated 
on  new  colours  and  sounds  and  lights  and 
music  and  things  as  far  as  he  understood 
them;  the  deep-mouthed  agony  of  Mr. 
Pepper  mingling  with  the  little  girl's  lisp. 
That  night  he  made  a  new  tale,  from 
which  he  shamelessly  removed  the  Rapun- 
zel-Rapunzel-let-down-your-hair  princess, 
gold  crown,  Grimm  edition,  and  all,  and 
put  a  new  Annieawlouise  in  her  place.  So 
it  was  perfectly  right  and  natural  that 
when  he  came  to  the  brushwood-pile  he 
should  find  her  waiting  for  him,  her  hair 
combed  off  her  forehead  more  like  Alice 
in  Wonderland  than  ever,  and  the  races 
and  adventures  began. 


Ten  years  at  an  English  public  school 
do  not  encourage  dreaming.  Georgie 
won  his  growth  and  chest  measurement, 
and  a  few  other  things  which  did  not 
appear  in  the  bills,  under  a  system  of 
cricket,  foot-ball,  and  paper-chases,  from 
four  to  five  days  a  week,  which  provided 


12       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

for  three  lawful  cuts  of  a  ground-ash  if 
any  boy  absented  himself  from  these 
entertainments.  He  became  a  rumple- 
collared,  dusty-hatted  fag  of  the  Lower 
Third,  and  a  light  half-back  at  Little 
Side  football;  was  pushed  and  prodded 
through  the  slack  back-waters  of  the 
Lower  Fourth,  where  the  raffle  of  a  school 
generally  accumulates;  won  his  "second- 
fifteen  ' '  cap  at  foot-ball,  enjoyed  the  dig- 
nity of  a  study  with  two  companions  in 
it,  and  began  to  look  forward  to  office  as 
a  sub-prefect.  At  last  he  blossomed  into 
full  glory  as  head  of  the  school,  ex-officio 
captain  of  the  games;  head  of  his  house, 
where  he  and  his  lieutenants  preserved 
discipline  and  decency  among  seventy 
boys  from  twelve  to  seventeen;  general 
arbiter  in  the  quarrels  that  spring  up 
among  the  touchy  Sixth — and  intimate 
friend  and  ally  of  the  Head  himself. 
When  he  stepped  forth  in  the  black  jersey, 
white  knickers,  and  black  stockings  of  the 
First  Fifteen,  the  new  match-ball  under 
his  arm,  and  his  old  and  frayed  cap  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  the  small  fry  of  the 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       13 

lower  forms  stood  apart  and  worshipped, 
and  the  "new  caps"  of  the  team  talked 
to  him  ostentatiously,  that  the  world 
might  see.  And  so,  in  summer,  when  he 
came  back  to  the  pavilion  after  a  slow 
but  eminently  safe  game,  it  mattered  not 
whether  he  had  made  nothing  or,  as  once 
happened,  a  hundred  and  three,  the  school 
shouted  just  the  same,  and  women-folk 
who  had  come  to  look  at  the  match 
looked  at  Cottar — Cottar,  major;  "that's 
Cottar!"  Above  all,  he  was  responsible 
for  that  thing  called  the  tone  of  the 
school,  and  few  realise  with  what  passion- 
ate devotion  a  certain  type  of  boy  throws 
himself  into  this  work.  Home  was  a  far- 
away country,  full  of  ponies  and  fishing 
and  shooting,  and  men- visitors  who  inter- 
fered with  one's  plans;  but  school  was 
the  real  world,  where  things  of  vital  im- 
portance happened,  and  crises  arose  that 
must  be  dealt  with  promptly  and  quietly. 
Not  for  nothing  was  it  written,  "Let  the 
Consuls  look  to  it  that  the  Republic  takes 
no  harm,"  and  Georgie  was  glad  to  be 
back   in   authority   when   the   holidays 


14       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

ended.  Behind  him,  but  not  too  near, 
was  the  wise  and  temperate  Head,  now 
suggesting  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent, 
now  counselHng  the  mildness  of  the  dove ; 
leading  him  on  to  see,  more  by  half -hints 
than  by  any  direct  word,  how  boys  and 
men  are  all  of  a  piece,  and  how  he  who 
can  handle  the  one  will  assuredly  in  time 
control  the  other. 

For  the  rest,  the  school  was  not  en- 
couraged to  dwell  on  its  emotions,  but 
rather  to  keep  in  hard  condition,  to  avoid 
false  quantities,  and  to  enter  the  army 
direct,  without  the  help  of  the  expensive 
London  crammer,  under  whose  roof  young 
blood  learns  too  much.  Cottar,  major, 
went  the  way  of  hundreds  before  him. 
The  Head  gave  him  six  months'  final 
polish,  taught  him  what  kind  of  answers 
best  please  a  certain  kind  of  examiners, 
and  handed  him  over  to  the  properly 
constituted  authorities,  who  passed  him 
into  Sandhurst.  Here  he  had  sense 
enough  to  see  that  he  was  in  the  Lower 
Third  once  more,  and  behaved  with 
respect  toward  his  seniors,  till  they  in 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY      15 

turn  respected  him,  and  he  was  promoted 
to  the  rank  of  corporal,  and  sat  in  author- 
ity over  mixed  peoples  with  all  the  vices 
of  men  and  boys  combined.  His  reward 
was  another  string  of  athletic  cups,  a 
good-conduct  sword,  and,  at  last,  Her 
Majesty's  commission  as  a  subaltern  in 
a  first-class  line  regiment.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  bore  with  him  from  school 
and  college  a  character  worth  much  fine 
gold,  but  was  pleased  to  find  his  mess  so 
kindly.  He  had  plenty  of  money  of  his 
own;  his  training  had  set  the  public- 
school  mask  upon  his  face,  and  had  taught 
him  how  many  were  the  "things  no  fellow 
can  do."  By  virtue  of  the  same  training 
he  kept  his  pores  open  and  his  mouth 
shut. 

The  regular  working  of  the  Empire 
shifted  his  world  to  India,  where  he  tasted 
utter  loneliness  in  subaltern's  quarters  — 
one  room  and  one  bullock-trunk  —  and, 
with  his  mess,  learned  the  new  life  from 
the  beginning.  But  there  were  horses  in 
the  land  —  ponies  at  reasonable  price; 
there  was  polo  for  such  as  could  afford 


i6       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

it ;  there  were  the  disreputable  remnants 
of  a  pack  of  hounds;  and  Cottar  worried 
his  way  along  without  too  much  despair. 
It  dawned  on  him  that  a  regiment  in 
India  was  nearer  the  chance  of  active 
service  than  he  had  conceived,  and  that  a 
man  might  as  well  study  his  profession. 
A  major  of  the  new  school  backed  this 
idea  with  enthusiasm,  and  he  and  Cottar 
accumulated  a  library  of  military  works, 
and  read  and  argued  and  disputed  far 
into  the  nights.  But  the  adjutant  said 
the  old  thing:  "Get  to  know  your  men, 
young  un,  and  they  '11  follow  you  any- 
where. That 's  all  you  want  — know  your 
men."  Cottar  thought  he  knew  them 
fairly  well  at  cricket  and  the  regimental 
sports,  but  he  never  realised  the  true 
inwardness  of  them  till  he  was  sent  off 
with  a  detachment  of  twenty  to  sit  down 
in  a  mud  fort  near  a  rushing  river  which 
was  spanned  by  a  bridge  of  boats.  When 
the  floods  came  they  went  forth  and 
hunted  strayed  pontoons  along  the  banks. 
Otherwise  there  was  nothing  to  do,  and 
the  men  got  drunk,  gambled,  and  quar- 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       17 

relied.  They  were  a  sickly  crew,  for  a 
junior  subaltern  is  by  custom  saddled 
with  the  worst  men.  Cottar  endured 
their  rioting  as  long  as  he  could,  and  then 
sent  down-country  for  a  dozen  pairs  of 
boxing-gloves. 

"I  wouldn't  blame  you  for  fightin'," 
said  he,  "if  you  only  knew  how  to  use 
your  hands;  but  you  don't.  Take  these 
things,  and  I'll  show  you."  The  men 
appreciated  his  efforts.  Now,  instead  of 
blaspheming  and  swearing  at  a  comrade, 
and  threatening  to  shoot  him,  they  could 
take  him  apart,  and  soothe  themselves 
to  exhaustion.  As  one  explained  whom 
Cottar  found  with  a  shut  eye  and  a 
diamond-shaped  mouth  spitting  blood 
through  an  embrasure:  *'We  tried  it 
with  the  gloves,  sir,  for  twenty  minutes, 
and  that  done  us  no  good,  sir.  Then  we 
took  off  the  gloves  and  tried  it  that  way 
for  another  twenty  minutes,  same  as  you 
showed  us,  sir,  an'  that  done  us  a  world 
o'  good.  'T  was  n't  fightin'  sir ;  there  was 
a  bet  on." 

Cottar  dared  not  laugh,  but  he  invited 


1 8       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

his  men  to  other  sports,  such  as  racing 
across  country  in  shirt  and  trousers  after 
a  trail  of  torn  paper,  and  to  single-stick 
in  the  evenings,  till  the  native  population, 
who  had  a  lust  for  sport  in  every  form, 
wished  to  know  whether  the  white  men 
understood  wrestling.  They  sent  in  an 
ambassador,  who  took  the  soldiers  by  the 
neck  and  threw  them  about  the  dust ;  and 
the  entire  command  were  all  for  this  new 
game.  They  spent  money  on  learning  new 
falls  and  holds,  which  was  better  than 
buying  other  doubtful  commodities;  and 
the  peasantry  grinned  five  deep  round  the 
tournaments. 

That  detachment,  who  had  gone  up 
in  bullock-carts,  returned  to  headquarters 
at  an  average  rate  of  thirty  miles  a  day, 
fair  heel-and-toe;  no  sick,  no  prisoners,  and 
no  courts  martial  pending.  They  scat- 
tered themselves  among  their  friends, 
singing  the  praises  of  their  lieutenant  and 
looking  for  causes  of  offence. 

"How  did  you  do  it,  young  un?"  the 
adjutant  asked. 

"Oh,  I  sweated  the  beef  off  *em,  and 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       19 

then  I  sweated  some  muscle  on  to  'em. 
It  was  rather  a  lark." 

"  If  that 's  your  way  of  lookin'  at  it,  we 
can  give  you  all  the  larks  you  want. 
Young  Davies  is  n't  feelin'  quite  fit,  and 
he  's  next  for  detachment  duty.  Care  to 
go  for  him?" 

"Sure  he  wouldn't  mind?  I  don't 
want  to  shove  myself  forward,  you  know. 

"  You  need  n't  bother  on  Davies's  ac- 
count. We  '11  give  you  the  sweepin's  of 
the  corps,  and  you  can  see  what  you  can 
make  of  'em." 

"All  right,"  said  Cottar.  "  It 's  better 
fun  than  loafin'  about  cantonments." 

"Rummy  thing,"  said  the  adjutant, 
after  Cottar  had  returned  to  his  wilder- 
ness with  twenty  other  devils  worse  than 
the  first.  "If  Cottar  only  knew  it,  half 
the  women  in  the  station  would  give 
their  eyes  —  confound  'em !  —  to  have 
the  young  un  in  tow." 

"That  accounts  for  Mrs.  Elery  sayin* 
I  was  workin'  my  nice  new  boy  too  hard," 
said  a  wing  commander. 

"Oh,  yes;  and  'Why  doesn't  he  come 


20      THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

to  the  band-stand  in  the  evenings?'  and 
'Can't  I  get  him  to  make  up  a  four  at 
tennis  with  the  Hammon  girls?'"  the 
adjutant  snorted .  * '  Look  at  young  Davies 
makin'  an  ass  of  himself  over  mutton- 
dressed-as-lamb  old  enough  to  be  his 
mother!" 

"No  one  can  accuse  young  Cottar  of 
runnin'  after  women,  white  or  black,"  the 
major  replied  thoughtfully.  "  But,  then, 
that's  the  kind  that  generally  goes  the 
worst  mucker  in  the  end." 

"  Not  Cottar.  I  've  only  run  across  one 
of  his  muster  before  —  a  fellow  called 
Ingles,  in  South  Africa.  He  was  just 
the  same  hard-trained,  athletic-sports 
build  of  animal.  Always  kept  himself  in 
the  pink  of  condition.  Didn't  do  him 
much  good,  though.  Shot  at  Wessel- 
stroom  the  week  before  Majuba.  Wonder 
how  the  young  un  will  lick  his  detachment 
into  shape." 

Cottar  turned  up  six  weeks  later,  on 
foot,  with  his  pupils.  He  never  told  his 
experiences,  but  the  men  spoke  enthusi- 
astically, and  fragments  of  it  leaked  back 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       21 

to  the  colonel  through  sergeants,  batmen, 
and  the  like. 

There  was  great  jealousy  between  the 
first  and  second  detachments,  but  the 
men  united  in  adoring  Cottar,  and  their 
way  of  showing  it  was  by  sparing  him  all 
the  trouble  that  men  know  how  to  make 
for  an  unloved  officer.  He  sought  popu- 
larity as  little  as  he  had  sought  it  at 
school,  and  therefore  it  came  to  him. 
He  favoured  no  one  —  not  even  when  the 
company  sloven  pulled  the  company 
cricket-match  out  of  the  fire  with  an 
unexpected  forty-three  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. There  was  very  little  getting 
round  him,  for  he  seemed  to  know  by 
instinct  exactly  when  and  where  to  head 
off  a  malingerer;  but  he  did  not  forget 
that  the  difference  between  a  dazed  and 
sulky  junior  of  the  upper  school  and  a 
bewildered,  brow-beaten  lump  of  a  pri- 
vate fresh  from  the  depot  was  very  small 
indeed.  The  sergeants,  seeing  these 
things,  told  him  secrets  generally  hid 
from  yoimg  officers.  His  words  were 
quoted  as  barrack  authority  on  bets  in 


22       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

canteen  and  at  tea ;  and  the  veriest  shrew 
of  the  corps,  bursting  with  charges  against 
other  women  who  had  used  the  cooking- 
ranges  out  of  turn,  forbore  to  speak  when 
Cottar,  as  the  regulations  ordained,  asked 
of  a  morning  if  there  were  "any  com- 
plaints." 

"I'm  full  o'  complaints,"  said  Mrs. 
Corporal  Morrison,  "an'  I'd  kill  O'Hal- 
loran's  fat  sow  of  a  wife  any  day,  but  ye 
know  how  it  is.  'E  puts  'is  head  just 
inside  the  door,  an'  looks  down  'is  blessed 
nose  so  bashful,  an'  'e  whispers,  'Any 
complaints?'  Ye  can't  complain  after 
that.  /  want  to  kiss  him.  Some  day 
I  think  I  will.  Heigh-ho!  she'll  be  a 
lucky  woman  that  gets  Young  Innocence. 
See  'im  now,  girls.     Do  ye  blame  me? " 

Cottar  was  cantci'ing  across  to  polo, 
dnd  he  looked  a  very  satisfactory  figure 
of  a  man  as  he  gave  easily  to  the  first 
excited  bucks  of  his  pony,  and  slipped 
over  a  low  mud  wall  to  the  practice- 
ground.  There  were  more  than  Mrs. 
Corporal  Morrison  who  felt  as  she  did. 
But  Cottar  was  busy  for  eleven  hours  of 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       23 

the  day.  He  did  not  care  to  have  his 
tennis  spoiled  by  petticoats  in  the  court ; 
and  after  one  long  afternoon  at  a  garden- 
party,  he  explained  to  his  major  that  this 
sort  of  thing  was  "futile  piffle,"  and  the 
major  laughed.  Theirs  was  not  a  mar- 
ried mess,  except  for  the  colonel's  wife, 
and  Cottar  stood  in  awe  of  the  good  lady. 
She  said  "my  regiment,"  and  the  world 
knows  what  that  means.  None  the  less, 
when  they  wanted  her  to  give  away  the 
prizes  after  a  shooting-match,  and  she 
refused  because  one  of  the  prize-winners 
was  married  to  a  girl  who  had  made  a 
jest  of  her  behind  her  broad  back,  the 
mess  ordered  Cottar  to  "  tackle  her,"  in  his 
best  calling-kit.  This  he  did,  simply  and 
laboriously,  and  she  gave  way  altogether. 

"She  only  wanted  to  know  the  facts 
of  the  case,"  he  explained.  "  I  just  told 
her,  and  she  saw  at  once." 

"  Ye-es, ' '  said  the  adjutant.  "  I  expect 
that 's  what  she  did.  Comin'  to  the  Fusi- 
liers'   dance   to-night,    Galahad?" 

"  No,  thanks.  I  've  got  a  fight  on  with 
the  major/ '    The  virtuous  apprentice  sat 


24       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

up  till  midnight  in  the  major's  quarters, 
with  a  stop-watch  and  a  pair  of  com- 
passes, shifting  little  painted  lead-blocks 
about  a  four-inch  map. 

Then  he  turned  in  and  slept  the  sleep 
of  innocence,  which  is  full  of  healthy 
dreams.  One  peculiarity  of  his  dreams 
he  noticed  at  the  beginning  of  his  second 
hot  weather.  Two  or  three  times  a  month 
they  duplicated  or  ran  in  series.  He 
would  find  himself  sliding  into  dreamland 
by  the  same  road  —  a  road  that  ran 
along  a  beach  near  a  pile  of  brushwood. 
To  the  right  lay  the  sea,  sometimes  at 
full  tide,  sometimes  withdrawn  to  the  very 
horizon ;  but  he  knew  it  for  the  same  sea. 
By  that  road  he  would  travel  over  a  swell 
of  rising  ground  covered  with  short,  with- 
ered grass,  into  valleys  of  wonder  and 
unreason.  Beyond  the  ridge,  which  was 
crowned  with  some  sort  of  street-lamp, 
anything  was  possible ;  but  up  to  the  lamp 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew  the  road 
as  well  as  he  knew  the  parade-ground. 
He  learned  to  look  forward  to  the  place; 
for,  once  there,  he  was  sure  of  a  good 


I   AM    POLICEMAN   DAY   COMING   BACK    FROM   THE   CITY   OF    SLEEP.      YOU 
COME  WITH   ME. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       25 

night's  rest,  and  Indian  hot  weather  can 
be  rather  trying.  First,  shadowy  under 
closing  eyelids,  would  come  the  outline  of 
the  brushwood-pile,  next  the  white  sand 
of  the  beach-road,  almost  overhanging 
the  black,  changeful  sea;  then  the  turn 
inland  and  uphill  to  the  single  light. 
When  he  was  unrestful  for  any  reason,  he 
would  tell  himself  how  he  was  sure  to  get 
there  —  sure  to  get  there  —  if  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  surrendered  to  the  drift  of 
things.  But  one  night  after  a  foolishly 
hard  hour's  polo  (the  thermometer  was 
94°  in  his  quarters  at  ten  o'clock),  sleep 
stood  away  from  him  altogether,  though 
he  did  his  best  to  find  the  well-known 
road,  the  point  where  true  sleep  began. 
At  last  he  saw  the  brushwood-pile,  and 
hurried  along  to  the  ridge,  for  behind  him 
he  felt  was  the  wide-awake,  sultry  world. 
He  reached  the  lamp  in  safety,  tingling 
with  drowsiness,  when  a  policeman  —  a 
common  country  policeman  —  sprang  up 
before  him  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  ere  he  could  dive  into  the  dim 
valley  below.    He  was  filled  with  terror 


26       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

—  the  hopeless  terror  of  dreams  —  for 
the  poHceman  said,  in  the  awful,  distinct 
voice  of  dream-people,  "I  am  Policeman 
Day  coming  back  from  the  City  of  Sleep. 
You  come  with  me."  Georgie  knew  it 
was  true  —  that  just  beyond  him  in  the 
valley  lay  the  lights  of  the  City  of  Sleep, 
where  he  would  have  been  sheltered,  and 
that  this  Policeman-Thing  had  full  power 
and  authority  to  head  him  back  to  miser- 
able wakefulness.  He  found  himself  look- 
ing at  the  moonlight  on  the  wall,  dripping 
with  fright;  and  he  never  overcame  that 
horror,  though  he  met  the  Policeman 
several  times  that  hot  weather,  and  his 
coming  was  the  forerunner  of  a  bad  night. 
But  other  dreams  —  perfectly  absurd 
ones  —  filled  him  with  an  incommu- 
nicable delight.  All  those  that  he  remem- 
bered began  by  the  brushwood-pile.  For 
instance,  he  found  a  small  clockwork 
steamer  (he  had  noticed  it  many  nights 
before)  lying  by  the  sea-road,  and  stepped 
into  it,  whereupon  it  moved  with  sur- 
passing swiftness  over  an  absolutely  level 
sea.    This  was  glorious,  for  he  felt  he  was 


THIS    IS   PRECISELY   WHAT   I    EXTECTED    HONG-KONG    WOULD    BE   LIKE. 


THE   BRUSHWOOD  BOY       27 

exploring  great  matters;  and  it  stopped 
by  a  lily  carved  in  stone,  which,  most 
naturally,  floated  on  the  water.  Seeing 
the  lily  was  labelled  "Hong-Kong," 
Georgie  said:  "Of  course.  This  is  pre- 
cisely what  I  expected  Hong-Kong  would 
be  like.  How  magnificent ! ' '  Thousands  of 
miles  farther  on  it  halted  at  yet  another 
stone  lily,  labelled  "Java";  and  this, 
again,  delighted  him  hugely,  because  he 
knew  that  now  he  was  at  the  world's  end. 
But  the  little  boat  ran  on  and  on  till  it 
lay  in  a  deep  fresh-water  lock,  the  sides 
of  which  were  carven  marble,  green  with 
moss.  Lily-pads  lay  on  the  water,  and 
reeds  arched  above.  Some  one  moved 
among  the  reeds  —  some  one  whom  Geor- 
gie knew  he  had  travelled  to  this  world's 
end  to  reach.  Therefore  everything  was 
entirely  well  with  him.  He  was  unspeak- 
ably happy,  and  vaulted  over  the  ship's 
side  to  find  this  person.  When  his  feet 
touched  that  still  water,  it  changed,  with 
the  rustle  of  unrolling  maps,  to  nothing 
less  than  a  sixth  quarter  of  the  globe, 
beyond  the  most  remote  imagining  of  man 


28       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

—  a  place  where  islands  were  coloured 
yellow  and  blue,  their  lettering  strung 
across  their  faces.  They  gave  on  un- 
known seas,  and  Georgie's  urgent  desire 
was  to  return  swiftly  across  this  floating 
atlas  to  known  bearings.  He  told  himself 
repeatedly  that  it  was  no  good  to  hurry; 
but  still  he  hurried  desperately,  and  the 
islands  slipped  and  slid  under  his  feet, 
the  straits  yawned  and  widened,  till  he 
found  himself  utterly  lost  in  the  world's 
fourth  dimension,  with  no  hope  of  return. 
Yet  only  a  little  distance  away  he  could 
see  the  old  world  with  the  rivers  and 
mountain-chains  marked  according  to 
the  Sandhurst  rules  of  map-making.  Then 
that  person  for  whom  he  had  come  to  the 
Lily  Lock  (that  was  its  name)  ran  up 
across  unexplored  territories,  and  showed 
him  a  way.  They  fled  hand  in  hand  till  they 
reached  a  road  that  spanned  ravines,  and 
ran  along  the  edge  of  precipices,  and  was 
tunnelled  through  mountains.  "This 
goes  to  our  brushwood-pile,"  said  his 
companion ;  and  all  his  trouble  was  at  an 
end.    He  took  a  pony,  because  he  under- 


SOJIE   ONE   JIOVED    AMONG    THE   REEDS. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       29 

stood  that  this  was  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride 
and  he  must  ride  swiftly,  and  raced 
through  the  clattering  tunnels  and  round 
the  curves,  always  downhill,  till  he  heard 
the  sea  to  his  left,  and  saw  it  raging  under 
a  full  moon,  against  sandy  cliffs.  It  was 
heavy  going,  but  he  recognised  the  nature 
of  the  country,  the  dark-purple  downs 
inland,  and  the  bents  that  whistled  in  the 
wind.  The  road  was  eaten  away  in  places 
and  the  sea  lashed  at  him  —  black,  foam- 
less  tongues  of  smooth  and  glossy  rollers ; 
but  he  was  sure  that  there  was  less  danger 
from  the  sea  than  from  "  Them,"  whoever 
"They"  were,  inland  to  his  right.  He 
knew,  too,  that  he  would  be  safe  if  he 
could  reach  the  down  with  the  lamp  on 
it.  This  came  as  he  expected:  he  saw 
the  one  light  a  mile  ahead  along  the  beach, 
dismounted,  turned  to  the  right,  walked 
quietly  over  to  the  brushwood-pile,  found 
the  little  steamer  had  returned  to  the 
beach  whence  he  had  unmoored  it,  and  — 
must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  he  could 
remember  no  more.  "  I  'm  gettin'  the 
hang  of  the  geography  of  that  place," 


30       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

he  said  to  himself,  as  he  shaved  next 
morning.  "  I  must  have  made  some  sort 
of  circle.  Let's  see.  The  Thirty-Mile 
Ride  (now  how  the  deuce  did  I  know  it 
was  called  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride?)  joins 
the  sea-road  beyond  the  first  down  where 
the  lamp  is.  And  that  atlas-country  lies 
at  the  back  of  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride,  some- 
where out  to  the  right  beyond  the  hills 
and  tunnels.  Rummy  things,  dreams. 
Wonder  what  makes  mine  fit  into  each 
other  so?" 

He  continued  on  his  solid  way  through 
the  recurring  duties  of  the  seasons.  The 
regiment  was  shifted  to  another  station, 
and  he  enjoyed  road-marching  for  two 
months,  with  a  good  deal  of  mixed  shoot- 
ing thrown  in,  and  when  they  reached 
their  new  cantonments  he  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  local  Tent  Club,  and  chased 
the  mighty  boar  on  horseback  with  a 
short  stabbing-spear.  There  he  met  the 
mahseer  of  the  Poonch,  beside  whom  the 
tarpon  is  as  a  herring,  and  he  who  lands 
him  can  say  that  he  is  a  fisherman.  This 
was  as  new  and   as  fascinating  as  the 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       31 

big-game  shooting  that  fell  to  his  portion, 
when  he  had  himself  photographed  for  the 
mother's  benefit,  sitting  on  the  flank  of 
his  first  tiger. 

Then  the  adjutant  was  promoted,  and 
Cottar  rejoiced  with  him,  for  he  admired 
the  adjutant  greatly,  and  marvelled  who 
might  be  big  enough  to  fill  his  place;  so 
that  he  nearly  collapsed  when  the  mantle 
fell  on  his  own  shoulders,  and  the  colonel 
said  a  few  sweet  things  that  made  him 
blush.  An  adjutant's  position  does  not 
differ  materially  from  that  of  head  of  the 
school,  and  Cottar  stood  in  the  same 
relation  to  the  colonel  as  he  had  to  his  old 
Head  in  England.  Only,  tempers  wear 
out  in  hot  weather,  and  things  were  said 
and  done  that  tried  him  sorely,  and  he 
made  glorious  blunders,  from  which  the 
regimental  sergeant-major  pulled  him 
with  a  loyal  soul  and  a  shut  mouth. 
Slovens  and  incompetents  raged  against 
him ;  the  weak-minded  strove  to  lure  him 
from  the  ways  of  justice;  the  small- 
minded  —  yea,  men  whom  Cottar  be- 
lieved would  never  do  "things  no  fellow 


32       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

can  do"  —  imputed  motives  mean  and 
circuitous  to  actions  that  he  had  not  spent 
a  thought  upon;  and  he  tasted  injustice, 
and  it  made  him  very  sick.  But  his  con- 
solation came  on  parade,  when  he  looked 
down  the  full  companies,  and  reflected 
how  few  were  in  hospital  or  cells,  and 
wondered  when  the  time  would  come  to 
try  the  machine  of  his  love  and  labour. 

But  they  needed  and  expected  the 
whole  of  a  man's  working-day,  and  maybe 
three  or  four  hours  of  the  night.  Curi- 
ously enough,  he  never  dreamed  about  the 
regiment  as  he  was  popularly  supposed 
to.  The  mind,  set  free  from  the  day's 
doings,  generally  ceased  working  alto- 
gether, or,  if  it  moved  at  all,  carried  him 
along  the  old  beach-road  to  the  downs, 
the  lamp-post,  and,  once  in  a  while,  to 
terrible  Policeman  Day.  The  second  time 
that  he  returned  to  the  world's  Lost  Con- 
tinent (this  was  a  dream  that  repeated 
itself  again  and  again,  with  variations, 
on  the  same  ground)  he  knew  that  if  he 
only  sat  still  the  person  from  the  Lily 
Lock  would  help  him,  and  he  was  not 


A   SICK   THUIG    LAY   IN    BED. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY      33 

disappointed.  Sometimes  he  was  trap- 
ped in  mines  of  vast  depth  hollowed  out 
of  the  heart  of  the  world,  where  men  in 
torment  chanted  echoing  songs;  and  he 
heard  this  person  coming  along  through 
the  galleries,  and  everything  was  made 
safe  and  delightful.  They  met  again  in 
low-roofed  Indian  railway-carriages  that 
halted  in  a  garden  surrounded  by  gilt- 
and-green  railings,  where  a  mob  of  stony 
white  people,  all  unfriendly,  sat  at  break- 
fast tables  covered  with  roses,  and  sepa- 
rated Georgie  from  his  companion,  while 
underground  voices  sang  deep-voiced 
songs.  Georgie  was  filled  with  enormous 
despair  till  they  two  met  again.  They 
foregathered  in  the  middle  of  an  endless, 
hot  tropic  night,  and  crept  into  a  huge 
house  that  stood,  he  knew,  somewhere 
north  of  the  railway-station  where  the 
people  ate  among  the  roses.  It  was  sur- 
rounded with  gardens,  all  moist  and  drip- 
ping; and  in  one  room,  reached  through 
leagues  of  whitewashed  passages,  a  Sick 
Thing  lay  in  bed.  Now  the  least  noise, 
Georgie    knew,    would     unchain     some 


34       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

waiting  horror,  and  his  companion  knew 
it,  too ;  but  when  their  eyes  met  across  the 
bed,  Georgie  was  disgusted  to  see  that 
she  was  a  child  —  a  Httle  girl  in  strapped 
shoes,  with  her  black  hair  combed  back 
from  her  forehead. 

"What  disgraceful  folly!"  he  thought 
"Now  she  could  do  nothing  whatever  if 
Its  head  came  off." 

Then  the  Thing  coughed,  and  the  ceil- 
ing shattered  down  in  plaster  on  the 
mosquito-netting,  and  "They"  rushed  in 
from  all  quarters.  He  dragged  the  child 
through  the  stifling  garden,  voices  chant- 
ing behind  them,  and  they  rode  the 
Thirty-Mile  Ride  under  whip  and  spur 
along  the  sandy  beach  by  the  booming 
sea,  till  they  came  to  the  downs,  the 
lamp-post,  and  the  brushwood-pile,  which 
was  safety.  Very  often  dreams  would 
break  up  about  them  in  this  fashion,  and 
they  would  be  separated,  to  endure  awful 
adventures  alone.  But  the  most  amusing 
times  were  when  he  and  she  had  a  clear 
understanding  that  it  was  all  make- 
believe,   and   walked  through  mile-wide 


THE   THIRTY-MILE    KIDE. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       35 

roaring  rivers  without  even  taking  off 
their  shoes,  or  set  light  to  populous  cities 
to  see  how  they  would  burn,  and  were 
rude  as  any  children  to  the  vague  shadows 
met  in  their  rambles.  Later  in  the  night 
they  were  sure  to  suffer  for  this,  either  at 
the  hands  of  the  Railway  People  eating 
among  the  roses,  or  in  the  tropic  uplands 
at  the  far  end  of  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride. 
Together,  this  did  not  much  affright  them ; 
but  often  Georgie  would  hear  her  shrill 
cry  of  "Boy!  Boy!"  half  a  world  away, 
and  hurry  to  her  rescue  before  "They" 
maltreated  her. 

He  and  she  explored  the  dark-purple 
downs  as  far  inland  from  the  brushwood- 
pile  as  they  dared,  but  that  was  always  a 
dangerous  matter.  .  The  interior  was  filled 
with  "Them,"  and  "They"  went  about 
singing  in  the  hollows,  and  Georgie  and 
she  felt  safer  on  or  near  the  seaboard. 
So  thoroughly  had  he  come  to  know  the 
place  of  his  dreams  that  even  waking  he 
accepted  it  as  a  real  country,  and  made 
a  rough  sketch  of  it.  He  kept  his  own 
counsel,  of  coiu'se;  but  the  permanence 


36       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

of  the  land  puzzled  him.  His  ordinary 
dreams  were  as  formless  and  as  fleeting 
as  any  healthy  dreams  could  be,  but  once 
at  the  brushwood-pile  he  moved  within 
known  limits  and  could  see  where  he  was 
going.  There  were  months  at  a  time 
when  nothing  notable  crossed  his  sleep. 
Then  the  dreams  would  come  in  a  batch 
of  five  or  six,  and  next  morning  the  map 
that  he  kept  in  his  writing-case  would  be 
written  up  to  date,  for  Georgie  was  a 
most  methodical  person.  There  was,  in- 
deed, a  danger  —  his  seniors  said  so  —  of 
his  developing  into  a  regular  "Auntie 
Fuss  "  of  an  adjutant,  and  when  an  officer 
once  takes  to  old-maidism  there  is  more 
hope  for  the  virgin  of  seventy  than  for  him. 

But  fate  sent  the  change  that  was 
needed,  in  the  shape  of  a  little  winter 
campaign  on  the  Border,  which,  after 
the  manner  of  little  campaigns,  flashed 
out  into  a  very  ugly  war;  and  Cottar's 
regiment  was  chosen  among  the  first. 

"Now,"  said  the  major,  "this  '11  shake 
the  cobwebs  out  of  us  all  —  especially 
you,  Galahad ;  and  we  can  see  what  your 


W^-      ': 


SET    LIGHT  TO   POPULOUS   CITIES   TO   SEE   HOW   THEY   WOULD   BUR.V. 


THE    BRUSHWOOD   BOY      37 

hen-with-one-chick  attitude  has  done  for 
the  regiment." 

Cottar  nearly  wept  with  joy  as  the  cam- 
paign went  forward.  They  were  fit  — 
physically  fit  beyond  the  other  troops; 
they  were  good  children  in  camp,  wet  or 
dry,  fed  or  unfed ;  and  they  followed  their 
officers  with  the  quick  suppleness  and 
trained  obedience  of  a  first-class  foot-ball 
fifteen.  They  were  cut  off  from  their 
apology  for  a  base,  and  cheerfully  cut 
their  way  back  to  it  again ;  they  crowned 
and  cleaned  out  hills  full  of  the  enemy 
with  the  precision  of  well-broken  dogs  of 
chase;  and  in  the  hour  of  retreat, 
when,  hampered  with  the  sick  and 
wounded  of  the  column,  they  were  per- 
secuted down  eleven  miles  of  waterless 
valley,  they,  serving  as  rear-guard, 
covered  themselves  with  a  great  glory 
in  the  eyes  of  fellow-professionals.  Any 
regiment  can  advance,  but  few  know  how 
to  retreat  with  a  sting  in  the  tail.  Then 
they  turned  to  made  roads,  most  often 
under  fire,  and  dismantled  some  incon- 
venient mud  redoubts.    They  were  the 


SS,       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

last  corps  to  be  withdrawn  when  the  rub- 
bish of  the  campaign  was  all  swept  up; 
and  after  a  month  in  standing  camp, 
which  tries  morals  severely,  they  departed 
to  their  own  place  in  column  of  fours, 
singing: 

"  'E  's  goin'  to  do  without  'em  — 

Don't  want  'em  any  more; 
*E  's  goin'  to  do  without  'em, 

As  'e's  often  done  before. 
'E  's  goin*  to  be  a  martyr 
On  a  'ighly  novel  plan. 
An'  all  the  boys  and  girls  will  say, 
'  Ow!  what  a  nice  young  man  —  man  —  man! 

Ow!  what  a  nice  young  man!'  " 

There  came  out  a  "Gazette"  in  which 
Cottar  found  that  he  had  been  behaving 
with  "courage  and  coolness  and  discre- 
tion" in  all  his  capacities;  that  he  had 
assisted  the  wounded  under  fire,  and 
blown  in  a  gate,  also  under  fire.  Net 
result,  his  captaincy  and  a  brevet  major- 
ity, coupled  with  the  Distinguished  Ser- 
vice Order. 

As  to  his  wounded,  he  explained  that 
they  were  both  heavy  men,  whom  he 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       39 

could  lift  more  easily  than  any  one  else. 

"Otherwise,    of   course,    I   should   have 

sent  out  one  of  my  men;  and,  of  course, 

about  that  gate  business,  we  were  safe 

the  minute  we  were  well  under  the  walls." 

But  this  did  not  prevent  his  men  from 

cheering  him  furiously  whenever  they  saw 

him,  or  the  mess  from  giving  him  a  dinner 

on  the  eve  of  his  departure  to  England. 

(A  year's  leave  was  among  the  things  he 

had  "snaffled  out  of  the  campaign,"  to 

use  his  own  words.)     The  doctor,  who 

had  taken  quite  as  much  as  was  good  for 

him,  quoted  poetry  about  "a  good  blade 

carving  the  casques  of  men,"  and  so  on, 

and  everybody  told  Cottar  that  he  was 

an  excellent  person;  but  when  he  rose  to 

make  his  maiden  speech  they  shouted  so 

that  he  was  understood  to  say,  "  It  is  n't 

any  use  tryin'  to  speak  with  you  chaps 

rottin'  me  like  this.     Let's  have  some 

pool." 

9  9  9 

It  is  not  unpleasant  to  spend  eight- 
and-twenty  days  in  an  easy-going  steamer 
on  warm  waters,  in  the  company  of  a 


40       THE   BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

woman  who  lets  you  see  that  you  are  head 
and  shoulders  superior  to  the  rest  of  the 
world,  even  though  that  woman  may  be, 
and  most  often  is,  ten  counted  years  your 
senior.  P.  O.  boats  are  not  lighted  with 
the  disgustful  particularity  of  Atlantic 
liners.  There  is  more  phosphorescence 
at  the  bows,  and  greater  silence  and  dark- 
ness by  the  hand-steering  gear  aft. 

Awful  things  might  have  happened  to 
Georgie  but  for  the  little  fact  that  he  had 
never  studied  the  first  principles  of  the 
game  he  was  expected  to  play.  So  when 
Mrs.  Zuleika,  at  Aden,  told  him  how 
motherly  an  interest  she  felt  in  his  welfare, 
medals,  brevet,  and  all,  Georgie  took  her 
at  the  foot  of  the  letter,  and  promptly 
talked  of  his  own  mother,  three  hundred 
miles  nearer  each  day,  of  his  home,  and 
so  forth,  all  the  way  up  the  Red  Sea.  It 
was  much  easier  than  he  had  supposed 
to  converse  with  a  woman  for  an  hour  at  a 
time.  Then  Mrs.  Zuleika,  turning  from 
parental  affection,  spoke  of  love  in  the 
abstract  as  a  thing  not  unworthy  of  study, 
^nd    in   discreet   twilights   after   dinner 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       41 

demanded  confidences.  Georgie  would 
have  been  delighted  to  supply  them,  but 
he  had  none,  and  did  not  know  it  was  his 
duty  to  manufacture  them.  Mrs.  Zu- 
leika  expressed  surprise  and  unbelief,  and 
asked  those  questions  which  deep  asks  of 
deep.  She  learned  all  that  was  necessary 
to  conviction,  and,  being  very  much  a 
woman,  resumed  (Georgie  never  knew 
that  she  had  abandoned)  the  motherly 
attitude. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  somewhere 
in  the  Mediterranean,  "I  think  you're 
the  very  dearest  boy  I  have  ever  met  in 
my  life,  and  I'd  like  you  to  remember 
me  a  little.  You  will  when  you  are  older, 
but  I  want  you  to  remember  me  now. 
You'll  make  some  girl  very  happy." 

"Oh!  Hope  so,"  said  Georgie,  gravely; 
"but  there's  heaps  of  time  for  marryin' 
an'  all  that  sort  of  thing,  ain't  there?" 

"That  depends.  Here  are  your  bean- 
bags  for  the  Ladies'  Competition.  I  think 
I'm  growing  too  old  to  care  for  these 
tamashas." 

They    were   getting    up    sports,    and 


42       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

Georgie  was  on  the  committee.  He  never 
noticed  how  perfectly  the  bags  were 
sewn,  but  another  woman  did,  and 
smiled — once.  He  liked  Mrs.  Zuleika 
greatly.  She  was  a  bit  old,  of  course,  but 
uncommonly  nice.  There  was  no  nonsense 
about  her. 

A  few  nights  after  they  passed  Gibral- 
tar his  dream  returned  to  him.  She  who 
waited  by  the  brushwood-pile  was  no 
longer  a  little  girl,  but  a  woman  with 
black  hair  that  grew  into  a  "widow's 
peak,"  combed  back  from  her  forehead. 
He  knew  her  for  the  child  in  black,  the 
companion  of  the  last  six  years,  and,  as 
it  had  been  in  the  time  of  the  meetings 
on  the  Lost  Continent,  he  was  filled  with 
delight  unspeakable.  "They,"  for  some 
dreamland  reason,  were  friendly  or  had 
gone  away  that  night,  and  the  two  flitted 
together  over  all  their  country,  from  the 
brushwood-pile  up  to  the  Thirty-Mile 
Ride,  till  they  saw  the  House  of  the  Sick 
Thing,  a  pin-point  in  the  distance  to  the 
left;  stamped  through  the  Railway  Wait- 
ing-room  where   the   roses   lay   on   the 


HE   COULD   ALMOST    HAVE   SWORN    THAT   THE    KISS   WAS    REAL. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       43 

spread  breakfast- tables ;  and  returned,  by 
the  ford  and  the  city  they  had  once 
burned  for  sport,  to  the  great  swells  of 
the  downs  under  the  lamp-post.  Wher- 
ever they  moved  a  strong  singing  followed 
them  underground,  but  this  night  there 
was  no  panic.  All  the  land  was  empty 
except  for  themselves,  and  at  the  last 
(they  were  sitting  by  the  lamp-post  hand 
in  hand)  she  turned  and  kissed  him.  He 
woke  with  a  start,  staring  at  the  waving 
curtain  of  the  cabin  door ;  he  could  almost 
have  sworn  that  the  kiss  was  real. 

Next  morning  the  ship  was  rolling  in 
a  Biscay  sea,  and  people  were  not  happy; 
but  as  Georgie  came  to  breakfast,  shaven, 
tubbed,  and  smelling  of  soap,  several 
turned  to  look  at  him  because  of  the  light 
in  his  eyes  and  the  splendour  of  his 
countenance. 

"Well,  you  look  beastly  fit,"  snapped 
a  neighbour.  "  Any  one  left  you  a  legacy 
in  the  middle  of  the  Bay?" 

Georgie  reached  for  the  curry,  with  a 
seraphic  grin.  "  I  suppose  it 's  the  get- 
tin'  so  near  home,  and  all  that.     I  do  feel 


44       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

rather  festive  this  momin'.     Rolls  a  bit, 
does  n't  she?" 

Mrs.  Zuleika  stayed  in  her  cabin  till 
the  end  of  the  voyage,  when  she  left 
without  bidding  him  farewell,  and  wept 
passionately  on  the  dock-head  for  pure 
joy  of  meeting  her  children,  who,  she 
had  often  said,  were  so  like  their  father. 

Georgie  headed  for  his  own  country, 
wild  with  delight  of  his  first  long  furlough 
after  the  lean  seasons.  Nothing  was 
changed  in  that  orderly  life,  from  the 
coachman  who  met  him  at  the  station 
to  the  white  peacock  that  stormed  at  the 
carriage  from  the  stone  wall  above  the 
shaven  lawns.  The  house  took  toll  of 
him  with  due  regard  to  precedence  —  first 
the  mother;  then  the  father;  then  the 
housekeeper,  who  wept  and  praised  God; 
then  the  butler,  and  so  on  down  to  the 
under-keeper,  who  had  been  dog-boy  in 
Georgie's  youth,  and  called  him  "Master 
Georgie,"  and  was  reproved  by  the  groom 
who  had  taught  Georgie  to  ride. 

"Not  a  thing  changed,"  he  sighed  con- 
tentedly, when  the  three  of  them  sat  down 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       45 

to  dinner  in  the  late  sunlight,  while  the 
rabbits  crept  out  upon  the  lawn  below  the 
cedars,  and  the  big  trout  in  the  ponds  by 
the  home  paddock  rose  for  their  evening 
meal. 

*'Our  changes  are  all  over,  dear,"  cooed 
the  mother;  "and  now  I  am  getting  used 
to  your  size  and  your  tan  (you  're  very 
brown,  Georgie),  I  see  you  haven't 
changed  in  the  least.  You  're  exactly 
like  the  pater." 

The  father  beamed  on  this  man  after 
his  own  heart  —  "  youngest  major  in  the 
army,  and  should  have  had  the  V.  C, 
sir,"  — and  the  butler  listened  with  his 
professional  mask  off  when  Master  Georgie 
spoke  of  war  as  it  is  waged  to-day,  and 
his  father  cross-questioned. 

They  went  out  on  the  terrace  to  smoke 
among  the  roses,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
old  house  lay  long  across  the  wonderful 
English  foliage,  which  is  the  only  living 
green  in  the  world. 

"Perfect!  By  Jove,  it's  perfect!" 
Georgie  was  looking  at  the  round-bosomed 
woods  beyond  the  home  paddock,  where 


46       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

the  white  pheasant  boxes  were  ranged; 
and  the  golden  air  was  full  of  a  hundred 
sacred  scents  and  sounds.  Georgie  felt 
his  father's  arm  tighten  in  his. 

"  It 's  not  half  bad  —  but  hodie  mihi, 
eras  tibi,  isn't  it?  I  suppose  you'll 
be  turning  up  some  fine  day  with  a  girl 
under  your  arm,  if  you  haven't  one 
now,  eh?" 

"You  can  make  your  mind  easy,  sir. 
I  haven't  one." 

"Not  in  all  these  years?"  said  the 
mother. 

"  I  had  n't  time,  mummy.  They  keep 
a  man  pretty  busy,  these  days,  in  the 
service,  and  most  of  our  mess  are  un- 
married, too." 

"  But  you  must  have  met  hundreds  in 
society  —  at  balls,  and  so  on?" 

"  I  'm  like  the  Tenth,  mummy:  I  don't 
dance." 

"Don't  dance!  What  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself,  then  —  backing  other 
men's  bills?"  said  the  father. 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  done  a  little  of  that 
too;  but  you  see,  as  things  are  now»  a 


THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY       47 

man  has  all  his  work  cut  out  for  him  to 
keep  abreast  of  his  profession,  and  my 
days  were  always  too  full  to  let  me  lark 
about  half  the  night." 

"Hmm!"  — suspiciously. 

"It's  never  too  late  to  learn.  We 
ought  to  give  some  kind  of  housewarming 
for  the  people  about,  now  you  've  come 
back.  Unless  you  want  to  go  straight  up 
to  town,  dear?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  anything  better 
than  this.  Let 's  sit  still  and  enjoy  our- 
selves. I  suppose  there  will  be  some- 
thing for  me  to  ride  if  I  look  for  it?" 

"  Seeing  I  've  been  kept  down  to  the  old 
brown  pair  for  the  last  six  weeks  because 
all  the  others  were  being  got  ready  for 
Master  Georgie,  I  should  say  there  might 
be,"  the  father  chuckled.  "They  're  re- 
minding me  in  a  hundred  ways  that  I 
must  take  the  second  place  now." 

"Brutes!" 

"The  pater  doesn't  mean  it,  dear; 
but  every  one  has  been  trying  to  make 
your  home-coming  a  success ;  and  you  do 
like  it,  don't  you?" 


48       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

"Perfect!  Perfect!  There's  no  place 
like  England  —  when  you  've  done  your 
work." 

"That's  the  proper  way  to  look  at  it, 
my  son." 

And  so  up  and  down  the  flagged  walk 
till  their  shadows  grew  long  in  the  moon- 
light, and  the  mother  went  indoors  and 
played  such  songs  as  a  small  boy  once 
clamoured  for,  and  the  squat  silver  can- 
dlesticks were  brought  in,  and  Georgie 
climbed  to  the  two  rooms  in  the  west 
wing  that  had  been  his  nursery  and  his 
play-room  in  the  beginning.  Then  who 
should  come  to  tuck  him  up  for  the  night 
but  the  mother?  And  she  sat  down  on 
the  bed,  and  they  talked  for  a  long  hour, 
as  mother  and  son  should,  if  there  is  to 
be  any  future  for  the  Empire.  With  a 
simple  woman's  deep  guile  she  asked 
questions  and  suggested  answers  that 
should  have  waked  some  sign  in  the  face 
on  the  pillow,  and  there  was  neither 
quiver  of  eyelid  nor  quickening  of  breath, 
neither  evasion  nor  delay  in  reply.  So 
she  blessed  him  and  kissed  him  on  the 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       49 

mouth,  which  is  not  always  a  mother's 
property,  and  said  something  to  her  hus- 
band later,  at  which  he  laughed  profane 
and  incredulous  laughs. 

All  the  establishment  waited  on  Georgie 
next  morning,  from  the  tallest  six- year- 
old,  "with  a  mouth  like  a  kid  glove, 
Master  Georgie,"  to  the  under-keeper 
strolling  carelessly  along  the  horizon, 
Georgie's  pet  rod  in  his  hand,  and  "There 's 
a  four-pounder  risin'  below  the  lasher. 
You  don't  'ave  'em  in  Injia,  Mast — Major 
Georgie."  It  was  all  beautiful  beyond 
telling,  even  though  the  mother  insisted 
on  taking  him  out  in  the  landau  (the 
leather  had  the  hot  Sunday  smell  of  his 
youth)  and  showing  him  off  to  her  friends 
at  all  the  houses  for  six  miles  round ;  and 
the  pater  bore  him  up  to  town  and  a  lunch 
at  the  club,  where  he  introduced  him, 
quite  carelessly,  to  not  less  than  thirty 
ancient  warriors  whose  sons  were  not  the 
youngest  majors  in  the  army  and  had  not 
the  D.  S.  O.  After  that  it  was  Georgie's 
turn;  and  remembering  his  friends,  he 
filled  up  the  house  with  that  kind  of 


50       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

officer  who  live  in  cheap  lodgings  at  South- 
sea  or  Montpelier  Square,  Brompton  — 
good  men  all,  but  not  well  off.  The 
mother  perceived  that  they  needed  girls 
to  play  with ;  and  as  there  was  no  scarcity 
of  girls,  the  house  hummed  like  a  dove- 
cote in  spring.  They  tore  up  the  place 
for  amateur  theatricals ;  they  disappeared 
in  the  gardens  when  they  ought  to  have 
been  rehearsing;  they  swept  off  every 
available  horse  and  vehicle,  especially 
the  governess-cart  and  the  fat  pony ;  they 
fell  into  the  trout-ponds;  they  picnicked 
and  they  tennised ;  and  they  sat  on  gates 
in  the  twilight,  two  by  two,  and  Georgie 
found  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  neces- 
sary to  their  entertainment. 

"My  word!"  said  he,  when  he  saw 
the  last  of  their  dear  backs.  "They  told 
me  they  Ve  enjoyed  'emselves,  but  they 
haven't  done  half  the  things  they  said 
they  would." 

"  I  know  they  Ve  enjoyed  themselves 
—  immensely,  "said  the  mother.  *  *  You  're 
a  public  benefactor,  dear." 

"  Now  we  can  be  quiet  again,  can't  we  ? " 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       51 

"  Oh,  quite.  I  've  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine  that  I  want  you  to  know.  She 
could  n't  come  with  the  house  ^o  full, 
because  she 's  an  invalid,  and  she  was 
away  when  you  first  came.  She 's  a  Mrs. 
Lacy." 

"Lacy!  I  don't  remember  the  name 
about  here." 

"No;  they  came  after  you  went  to 
India  —  from  Oxford.  Her  husband 
died  there,  and  she  lost  some  money,  I 
believe.  They  bought  The  Firs  on  the 
Bassett  Road.  She 's  a  very  sweet 
woman,  and  we  're  very  fond  of  them 
both." 

"She  's  a  widow,  did  n't  you  say?" 

"  She  has  a  daughter.  Surely  I  said  so, 
dear?" 

"Does  she  fall  into  trout-ponds,  and 
gas  and  giggle,  and  'Oh,  Major  Cottah!' 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"No,  indeed.  She's  a  very  quiet  girl, 
and  very  musical.  She  always  came  over 
here  with  her  music-books  —  composing, 
you  know;  and  she  generally  works  all 
day,  so  you  won't " 


52       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

"Talking  about  Miriam?"  said  the 
pater,  coming  up.  The  mother  edged 
toward  him  within  elbow-reach.  There 
was  no  finesse  about  Georgie's  father. 
*'0h,  Miriam  's  a  dear  girl.  Plays  beau- 
tifully. Rides  beautifully,  too.  She  's  a 
regular  pet  of  the  household.  Used  to 
call  me  — "  The  elbow  went  home,  and 
ignorant  but  obedient  always,  the  pater 
shut  himself  off. 

"What  used  she  to  call  you,  sir?" 

"All  sorts  of  pet  names.  I  'm  very 
fond   of   Miriam." 

"Sounds  Jewish  —  Miriam." 

"Jew!  You'll  be  calling  yourself  a 
Jew  next.  She  's  one  of  the  Hereford- 
shire Lacys.  When  her  aunt  dies — " 
Again  the  elbow. 

"Oh,  you  won't  see  anything  of  her, 
Georgie.  She 's  busy  with  her  music  or 
her  mother  all  day.  Besides,  you  're 
going  up  to  town  to-morrow,  are  n't  you? 
I  thought  you  said  something  about  an 
Institute  meeting?"     The  mother  spoke. 

"  Go  up  to  town  now!  What  nonsense  I  * ' 
Once  more  the  pater  was  shut  off. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       53 

"I  had  some  idea  of  it,  but  I  'm  not 
quite  sure,"  said  the  son  of  the  house. 
Why  did  the  mother  try  to  get  him  away 
because  a  musical  girl  and  her  invalid 
parent  were  expected?  He  did  not 
approve  of  unknown  females  calling  his 
father  pet  names.  He  would  observe 
these  pushing  persons  who  had  been  only 
seven  years  in  the  county. 

All  of  which  the  delighted  mother  read 
in  his  countenance,  herself  keeping  an  air 
of  sweet  disinterestedness. 

"  They  '11  be  here  this  evening  for  dinner. 
I  'm  sending  the  carriage  over  for  them, 
and  they  won't  stay  more  than  a  week." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  go  up  to  town.  I 
don't  quite  know  yet."  Georgie  moved 
away  irresolutely.  There  was  a  lecture 
at  the  United  Services  Institute  on  the 
supply  of  ammunition  in  the  field,  and 
the  one  man  whose  theories  most  irritated 
Major  Cottar  would  deliver  it.  A  heated 
discussion  was  sure  to  follow,  and  perhaps 
he  might  find  himself  moved  to  speak. 
He  took  his  rod  that  afternoon  and  went 
down  to  thrash  it  out  among  the  trout. 


54       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

"Good  sport,  dear!"  said  the  mother, 
from  the  terrace. 

"  'Fraid  it  won't  be,  mummy.  All 
those  men  from  town,  and  the  girls 
particularly,  have  put  every  trout  off  his 
feed  for  weeks.  There  is  n't  one  of  'em 
that  cares  for  fishin'  —  really.  Fancy 
stamp  in'  and  shout  in'  on  the  bank,  and 
tellin'  every  fish  for  half  a  mile  exactly 
what  you're  goin'  to  do,  and  then  chuckin' 
a  brute  of  a  fly  at  him!  By  Jove,  it 
would  scare  me  if  I  was  a  trout!" 

But  things  were  not  as  bad  as  he  had 
expected.  The  black  gnat  was  on  the 
water,  and  the  water  was  strictly  pre- 
served. A  three-quarter-pounder  at  the 
second  cast  set  him  for  the  campaign,  and 
he  worked  down-stream,  crouching  behind 
the  reed  and  meadow-sweet ;  creeping  be- 
tween a  hornbeam  hedge  and  a  foot-wide 
strip  of  bank,  where  he  could  see  the 
trout,  but  where  they  could  not  distin- 
guish him  from  the  background;  lying 
almost  on  his  stomach  to  switch  the  blue- 
tipright  sidewise  through  the  checkered 
shadows  of  a  gravelly  ripple  under  over- 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       55 

arching  trees.  But  he  had  known  every 
inch  of  the  water  since  he  was  four  feet 
high.  The  aged  and  astute  between  sunk 
roots,  with  the  large  and  fat  that  lay  in 
the  frothy  scum  below  some  strong  rush 
of  water,  sucking  as  lazily  as  carp,  came 
to  trouble  in  their  turn,  at  the  hand  that 
imitated  so  delicately  the  flicker  and 
wimple  of  an  egg-dropping  fly.  Con- 
sequently, Georgie  found  himself  five 
miles  from  home  when  he  ought  to  have 
been  dressing  for  dinner.  The  house- 
keeper had  taken  good  care  that  her  boy 
should  not  go  empty,  and  before  he 
changed  to  the  white  moth  he  sat  down 
to  excellent  claret  with  sandwiches  of 
potted  egg  and  things  that  adoring  women 
make  and  men  never  notice.  Then  back, 
to  surprise  the  otter  grubbing  for  fresh- 
water mussels,  the  rabbits  on  the  edge 
of  the  beechwoods  foraging  in  the  clover, 
and  the  policeman -like  white  owl  stoop- 
ing to  the  little  field-mice,  till  the  moon 
was  strong,  and  he  took  his  rod  apart,  and 
went  home  through  well-remembered  gaps 
in  the  hedges.     He  fetched  a  compass 


56       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

round  the  house,  for,  though  he  might 
have  broken  every  law  of  the  establish- 
ment every  hour,  the  law  of  his  boyhood 
was  unbreakable:  after  fishing  you  went 
in  by  the  south  garden  backdoor,  cleaned 
up  in  the  outer  scullery,  and  did  not 
present  yourself  to  your  elders  and  your 
betters  till  you  had  washed  and  changed. 

"Half-past  ten,  by  Jove!  Well,  we'll 
make  the  sport  an  excuse.  They 
would  n't  want  to  see  me  the  first  evening, 
at  any  rate.  Gone  to  bed,  probably." 
He  skirted  by  the  open  French  windows 
of  the  drawing-room.  "  No,  they  have  n't. 
They  look  very  comfy  in  there." 

He  could  see  his  father  in  his  own  par- 
ticular chair,  the  mother  in  hers,  and  the 
back  of  a  girl  at  the  piano  by  the  big 
potpourri-jar.  The  gardens  looked  half 
divine  in  the  moonlight,  and  he  turned 
down  through  the  roses  to  finish  his  pipe. 

A  prelude  ended,  and  there  floated  out 
a  voice  of  the  kind  that  in  his  childhood 
he  used  to  call  "creamy" — a  full,  true 
contralto;  and  this  is  the  song  that  he 
heard,  every  syllable  of  it: 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       57 

Over  the  edge  of  the  purple  down, 

Where  the  single  lamplight  gleams, 
Know  ye  the  road  to  the  Merciful  Town 

That  is  hard  by  the  Sea  of  Dreams  — 
Where  the  poor  may  lay  their  wrongs  away, 

And  the  sick  may  forget  to  weep? 
But  we  —  pity  us!  oh,  pity  us! 

We  wakeful;  ah,  pity  us!  — 
We  must  go  back  with  Policeman  Day  — 

Back  from  the  City  of  Sleep! 

Weary  they  turn  from  the  scroll  and  crown. 

Fetter  and  prayer  and  plough  — 
They  that  go  up  to  the  Merciful  Town, 

For  her  gates  are  closing  now. 
It  is  their  right  in  the  Baths  of  Night 

Body  and  sotd  to  steep: 
But  we  —  pity  us!  ah,  pity  us! 

We  wakeful;  oh,  pity  us! — • 
We  must  go  back  with  Policeman  Day  — 

Back  from  the  City  of  Sleep! 

Over  the  edge  of  the  purple  down, 

Ere  the  tender  dreams  begin. 
Look  —  we  may  look  —  at  the  Merciful  Town, 

But  we  may  not  enter  in! 
Outcasts  all,  from  her  guarded  wall 

Back  to  our  watch  we  creep: 
We  —  pity  us!  ah,  pity  us! 

We  wakeful;  oh,  pity  us!  — 
We  that  go  back  with  Policeman  Day  •— 

Back  from  the  City  of  Sleep  I 


58       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

At  the  last  echo  he  was  aware  that 
his  mouth  was  dry  and  unknown  pulses 
were  beating  in  the  roof  of  it.  The 
housekeeper,  who  would  have  it  that 
he  must  have  fallen  in  and  caught  a 
chill,  was  waiting  to  catch  him  on  the 
stairs,  and,  since  he  neither  saw  nor 
answered  her,  carried  a  wild  tale  abroad 
that  brought  his  mother  knocking  at  the 
door. 

"Anything  happened,  dear?  Harper 
said  she  thought  you  were  n't  — " 

"No;  it's  nothing.  I'm  all  right, 
mummy.     Please  don't  bother." 

He  did  not  recognise  his  own  voice, 
but  that  was  a  small  matter  beside  what 
he  was  considering.  Obviously,  most 
obviously,  the  whole  coincidence  was 
crazy  lunacy.  He  proved  it  to  the  satis- 
faction of  Major  George  Cottar,  who  was 
going  up  to  town  to-morrow  to  hear  a 
lecture  on  the  supply  of  ammunition  in 
the  field;  and  having  so  proved  it,  the 
soul  and  brain  and  heart  and  body  of 
Georgie cried  joyously:  "That 's  the  Lily 
Lock  girl  —  the  Lost  Continent  girl  —  the 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       59 

Thirty-Mile  Ride  girl  —  the  Brushwood 
girl!     /  know  her!" 

He  waked,  stiff  and  cramped  in  his 
chair,  to  reconsider  the  situation  by 
sunlight,  when  it  did  not  appear  normal. 
But  a  man  must  eat,  and  he  went  to 
breakfast,  his  heart  between  his  teeth, 
holding  himself  severely  in  hand. 

"Late,  as  usual,"  said  the  mother. 
"My  boy,  Miss  Lacy." 

A  tall  girl  in  black  raised  her  eyes  to 
his,  and  Georgie's  life  training  deserted 
him  —  just  as  soon  as  he  realised  that  she 
did  not  know.  He  stared  coolly  and 
critically.  There  was  the  abundant  black 
hair,  growing  in  a  widow's  peak,  turned 
back  from  the  forehead,  with  that  pecu- 
liar ripple  over  the  right  ear;  there  were 
the  gray  eyes  set  a  little  close  together; 
the  short  upper  lip,  resolute  chin,  and  the 
known  poise  of  the  head.  There  was  also 
the  small  well-cut  mouth  that  had  kissed 
him. 

"Georgie  —  dear!''  said  the  mother, 
amazedly,  for  Miriam  was  flushing  under 
the  stare, 


6o       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

"I  —  I  beg  yotir  pardon!"  he  gulped. 
"I  don't  know  whether  the  mother  has 
told  you,  but  I  'm  rather  an  idiot  at  times, 
specially  before  I  've  had  my  breakfast. 
It  's  —  it 's  a  family  failing." 

He  turned  to  explore  among  the  hot- 
water  dishes  on  the  sideboard,  rejoicing 
that  she  did  not  know  —  she  did  not 
know. 

His  conversation  for  the  rest  of  the 
meal  was  mildly  insane,  though  the 
mother  thought  she  had  never  seen  her 
boy  look  half  so  handsome.  How  could 
any  girl,  least  of  all  one  of  Miriam's  dis- 
cernment, forbear  to  fall  down  and  wor- 
ship? But  deeply  Miriam  was  displeased. 
She  had  never  been  stared  at  in  that 
fashion  before,  and  promptly  retired  into 
her  shell  when  Georgie  announced  that 
he  had  changed  his  mind  about  going  to 
town,  and  would  stay  to  play  with  Miss 
Lacy  if  she  had  nothing  better  to  do. 

"  Oh,  but  don't  let  me  throw  you  out. 
I  'm  at  work.     I  've  things  to  do  all  the 
morning." 
.    "What  possessed  Georgie  to  behave 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY      6i 

so  oddly?"  the  mother  sighed  to  herself. 
"  Miriam's  a  bundle  of  feelings  —  like  her 
mother." 

"You  compose  —  don't  you?  Must 
be  a  fine  thing  to  be  able  to  do  that. 
["Pig  —  oh,  pig!"  thought  Miriam.] 
I  think  I  heard  you  singin'  when  I  came 
in  last  night  after  fishin'.  All  about  a 
Sea  of  Dreams,  was  n't  it?  [Miriam  shud- 
dered to  the  core  of  the  soul  that  afflicted 
her.]  Awfully  pretty  song.  How  d'  you 
think   of   such    things?" 

"You  only  composed  the  music,  dear, 
did  n't  you?" 

"The  words  too.  I  'm  sure  of  it," 
said  Georgie,  with  a  sparkling  eye.  No; 
she  did  not  know. 

"  Yeth;  I  wrote  the  words  too."  Mir- 
iam spoke  slowly,  for  she  knew  she  lisped 
when  she  was  nervous. 

"Now  how  could  you  tell,  Georgie?" 
said  the  mother,  as  delighted  as  though 
the  youngest  major  in  the  army  were  ten 
years  old,  showing  off  before  company. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,  somehow.  Oh,  there 
are  heaps  of  things  about  me,  mummy, 


62       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

that  you  don't  understand.  Looks  as  if 
it  were  goin'  to  be  a  hot  day  —  for  Eng- 
land. Would  you  care  for  a  ride  this 
afternoon,  Miss  Lacy?  We  can  start  out 
after  tea,  if  you  'd  like  it." 

Miriam  could  not  in  decency  refuse, 
but  any  woman  might  see  she  was  not 
filled  with  delight. 

"That  will  be  very  nice,  if  you  take 
the  Bassett  Road.  It  will  save  me  send- 
ing Martin  down  to  the  village,"  said  the 
mother,  filling  in  gaps. 

Like  all  good  managers,  the  mother  had 
her  one  weakness  —  a  mania  for  little 
strategies  that  should  economise  horses 
and  vehicles.  Her  men-folk  complained 
that  she  turned  them  into  common  car- 
riers, and  there  was  a  legend  in  the  family 
that  she  had  once  said  to  the  pater  on  the 
morning  of  a  meet:  "If  you  should  kill 
near  Bassett,  dear,  and  if  it  is  n't  too  late, 
would  you  mind  just  popping  over  and 
matching  me  this?" 

"I  knew  that  was  coming.  You'd 
never  miss  a  chance,  mother.  If  it's  a 
fish  or  a  trunk  I  won't."  Georgie  laughed. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY       63 

"  It 's  only  a  duck.  They  can  do  it 
up  very  neatly  at  Mallett's,"  said  the 
mother,  simply.  **  You  won't  mind,  will 
you?  We  '11  have  a  scratch  dinner  at 
nine,  because  it  's  so  hot." 

The  long  summer  day  dragged  itself 
out  for  centuries;  but  at  last  there  was 
tea  on  the  lawn,  and  Miriam  appeared. 

She  was  in  the  saddle  before  he  could 
offer  to  help,  with  the  clean  spring  of  the 
child   who   mounted   the   pony   for   the 
Thirty-Mile  Ride.     The  day  held  merci- 
lessly, though  Georgie  got  down  thrice 
to  look  for  imaginary  stones  in  Rufus's 
foot.     One  cannot  say  even  simple  thingis 
in   broad   light,    and   this   that   Georgie 
meditated  was  not  simple.     So  he  spoke 
seldom,  and  Miriam  was  divided  between 
relief  and  scorn.     It  annoyed  her  that 
the  great  hulking  thing  should  know  she 
had  written  the  words  of  the  song  over- 
night ;  for  though  a  maiden  may  sing  her 
most  secret  fancies  aloud,  she  does  not 
care  to  have  them  trampled  over  by  the 
male  Philistine.     They  rode  into  the  little 
red-brick  street  of  Bassett,  and  Georgie 


64      THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

made  untold  fuss  over  the  disposition  of 
that  duck.  It  must  go  in  just  such  a 
package,  and  be  fastened  to  the  saddle  in 
just  such  a  manner,  though  eight  o'clock 
had  struck  and  they  were  miles  from 
dinner. 

"We  must  be  quick!"  said  Miriam, 
bored  and  angry. 

"There  's  no  great  hurry;  but  we  can 
cut  over  Dowhead  Down,  and  let  *em  out 
on  the  grass.  That  will  save  us  half  an 
hour." 

The  horses  capered  on  the  short,  sweet- 
smelling  turf,  and  the  delaying  shadows 
gathered  in  the  valley  as  they  cantered 
over  the  great  dun  down  that  overhangs 
Bassett  and  the  Western  coaching-road. 
Insensibly  the  pace  quickened  without 
thought  of  mole-hills;  Rufus,  gentleman 
that  he  was,  waiting  on  Miriam's  Dandy 
till  they  should  have  cleared  the  rise. 
Then  down  the  two-mile  slope  they  raced 
together,  the  wind  whistling  in  their  ears, 
to  the  steady  throb  of  eight  hoofs  and  the 
light  click-click  of  the  shifting  bits. 

"Oh,  that  was  glorious!"  Miriam  cried. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY        65 

reining  in.  "  Dandy  and  I  are  old  friends, 
but  I  don't  think  we  've  ever  gone  better 
together. ' ' 

"No;  but  you've  gone  quicker,  once 
or  twice." 

"Really?     When?" 

Georgie  moistened  his  lips.  "Don't 
you  remember  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride  — 
with  me  —  when  '  They '  were  after  us  — 
on  the  beach-road,  with  the  sea  to  the 
left  —  going  toward  the  lamp-post  on 
the  downs  ? ' ' 

The  girl  gasped.  "What  —  what  do 
you  mean?"  she  said  hysterically. 

"The  Thirty-Mile  Ride,  and  — and 
all  the  rest  of  it." 

"You  mean — ?  I  didn't  sing  any- 
thing about  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride.  I 
know  I  did  n't.  I  have  never  told  a 
living  soul." 

*'You  told  about  Policeman  Day,  and 
the  lamp  at  the  top  of  the  downs,  and  the 
City  of  Sleep.  It  all  joins  on,  you  know — 
it  's  the  same  country  —  and  it  was  easy 
enough  to  see  where  you  had  been." 

"  Good  God !  —  It  joins  on  —  of  course 


66       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

it  does ;  but  —  I  have  been  —  you  have 
been  —  Oh,  let 's  walk,  please,  or  I  shall 
fall  off!" 

Georgie  ranged  alongside,  and  laid  a 
hand  that  shook  below  her  bridle-hand, 
pulling  Dandy  into  a  walk.  Miriam  was 
sobbing  as  he  had  seen  a  man  sob  under 
the  touch  of  the  bullet. 

"It's  all  right  — it's  all  right,"  he 
whispered  feebly.  "Only — only  it's 
true,  you  know." 

"True!    Am  I  mad?" 
"  Not  unless  I  'm  mad  as  well.     Do  try 
to  think  a  minute  quietly.     How  could 
any  one  conceivably  know  anything  about 
the   Thirty-Mile   Ride   having   anything 
to  do  with  you,  unless  he  had  been  there? " 
"But  where?     ^\xt  where?    Tell  me!" 
"  There  —  wherever  it  may  be  —  in  our 
country,  I  suppose.     Do  you  remember 
the  first  time  you  rode  it  —  the  Thirty- 
Mile  Ride,  I  mean?     You  must." 
"  It  was  all  dreams  —  all  dreams ! " 
"  Yes,  but  tell,  please ;  because  I  know." 
"  Let  me  think.     I  —  we  were  on  no 
account    to    make    any    noise  —  on    no 


THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY       67 

account  to  make  any  noise."  She  was 
staring  oetween  Dandy's  ears,  with  eyes 
that  did  not  see,  and  a  suffocating  heart. 

"Because  'It'  was  dying  in  the  big 
house  ? ' '  Georgie  went  on ,  reining  in  again. 

"There  was  a  garden  with  green-and- 
gilt  raiUngs — all  hot.  Do  you  remember?  " 

"I  ought  to.  I  was  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  before  '  It '  coughed 
and  '  They '  came  in. ' ' 

"You!" — the  deep  voice  was  un- 
naturally full  and  strong,  and  the  girl's 
wide-opened  eyes  burned  in  the  dusk  as 
she  stared  him  through  and  through. 
"  Then  you  're  the  Boy  —  my  Brushwood 
Boy,  and  I  've  known  you  all  my  life!" 

She  fell  forward  on  Dandy's  neck. 
Georgie  forced  himself  out  of  the  weak- 
ness that  was  overmastering  his  limbs, 
and  slid  an  arm  round  her  waist.  The 
head  dropped  on  his  shoulder,  and  he 
found  himself  with  parched  lips  saying 
things  that  up  till  then  he  believed  existed 
only  in  printed  works  of  fiction.  Merci- 
fully the  horses  were  quiet.  She  made 
no  attempt  to  draw  herself  away  when 


68       THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

she  recovered,  but  lay  still,  whispering, 
"  Of  course  you  're  the  Boy,  and  I  did  n't 
know  —  I  did  n't  know." 

*'I  knew  last  night;  and  when  I  saw 
you  at  breakfast " 

"Oh,  that  was  why!  I  wondered  at 
the  time.     You  would,  of  course." 

"  I  could  n't  speak  before  this.  Keep 
your  head  where  it  is,  dear.  It  's  all  right 
now  —  all  right  now,  is  n't  it?" 

"  But  how  was  it  /  did  n't  know  —  after 
all  these  years  and  years?  I  remember 
—  oh,  what  lots  of  things  I  remember!" 

"Tell  me  some.  I  '11  look  after  the 
horses." 

"  I  remember  waiting  for  you  when  the 
steamer  came  in.     Do  you?" 

"  At  the  Lily  Lock,  beyond  Hong-Kong 
and  Java  ? ' ' 

"Do  you  call  it  that,  too?" 

"  You  told  me  it  was  when  I  was  lost  in 
the  continent.  That  was  you  that  showed 
me  the  way  through  the  mountains?" 

"  When  the  islands  slid  ?  It  must  have 
been,  because  you  're  the  only  one  I 
remember.     All  the  others  were  '  Them. ' ' ' 


'THIS!      SAIU    GEORC.IE. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       69 

"Awful  brutes  they  were,  too." 

"  I  remember  showing  you  the  Thirty- 
Mile  Ride  the  first  time.  You  ride 
just  as  you  used  to  —  then.  You  are 
you!" 

"That's  odd.  I  thought  that  of  you 
this  afternoon.     Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

"  What  does  it  all  mean?  Why  should 
you  and  I  of  the  millions  of  people  in 
the  world  have  this  —  this  thing  between 
us?  What  does  it  mean?  I  'm  frightened." 

"This!"  said  Georgie.  The  horses 
quickened  their  pace.  They  thought 
they  had  heard  an  order.  "Perhaps 
when  we  die  we  may  find  out  more,  but 
it  means  this  now." 

There  was  no  answer.  What  could 
she  say?  As  the  world  went,  they  had 
known  each  other  rather  less  than  eight 
and  a  half  hours,  but  the  matter  was  one 
that  did  not  concern  the  world.  There 
was  a  very  long  silence,  while  the  breath 
in  their  nostrils  drew  cold  and  sharp  as 
it  might  have  been  a  fume  of  ether. 

"That's  the  second,"  Georgie  whis- 
pered.    "You  remember,  don't  you?" 


70       THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY 

"It  's  not!"  —furiously.     "It 's  not!" 

"  On  the  downs  the  other  night  — 
months  ago.  You  were  just  as  you  are 
now,  and  we  went  over  the  country  for 
'miles  and  miles." 

"It  was  all  empty,  too.  They  had 
gone  away.  Nobody  frightened  us.  I 
wonder  why,  Boy?" 

"Oh,  if  you  remember  that,  you  must 
remember  the  rest.     Confess!" 

"  I  remember  lots  of  things,  but  I  know 
I  did  n't.     I  never  have  —  till  just  now." 

"Yon  did,  dear." 

"  I  know  I  did  n't,  because  —  oh,  it  's 
no  use  keeping  anything  back !  —  because 
I  truthfully  meant   to." 

"And  truthfully  did." 

"No;  meant  to;  but  some  one  else 
came  by." 

"There  wasn't  any  one  else.  There 
never  has  been." 

"  There  was  —  there  always  is.  It  was 
another  woman  —  out  there  on  the  sea. 
I  saw  her.  It  was  the  26th  of  May. 
I  've  got  it  written  down  somewhere." 

"Oh,   you've  kept  a  record  of  your 


IT   WAS   ANOTHER   WOMAN. 


THE  BRUSHWOOD  BOY        71 

dreams,  too  ?  That 's  odd  about  the  other 
woman,  because  I  happened  to  be  on  the 
sea  just  then." 

"I  was  right.  How  do  I  know  what 
you  've  done  when  you  were  awake — and 
I  thought  it  was  only  you!" 

"  You  never  were  more  wrong  in  your 
life.  What  a  little  temper  you  've  got ! 
Listen  to  me  a  minute,  dear."  And 
Georgie,  though  he  knew  it  not,  com- 
mitted black  perjury.  "It  —  it  is  n't  the 
kind  of  thing  one  says  to  any  one,  because 
they  'd  laugh;  but  on  my  word  and  hon- 
our, darling,  I  've  never  been  kissed  by  a 
living  soul  outside  my  own  people  in  all 
my  life.  Don't  laugh,  dear.  I  would  n't 
tell  any  one  but  you,  but  it  's  the  solemn 
truth." 

"I  knew!  You  are  you.  Oh,  I  knew 
you  'd  come  some  day ;  but  I  did  n't  know 
you  were  you  in  the  least  till  you  spoke." 

"Then  give  me  another." 

"And  you  never  cared  or  looked  any- 
where? Why,  all  the  round  world  must 
have  loved  you  from  the  very  minute 
they  saw  you.  Boy." 


72       THE   BRUSHWOOD   BOY 

"They  kept  it  to  themselves  if  they 
did.     No;  I  never  cared." 

"And  we  shall  be  late  for  dinner  — 
horribly  late.  Oh,  how  can  I  look  at  you 
in  the  light  before  your  mother  —  and 
mine!" 

"  We  '11  play  you  *re  Miss  Lacy  till  the 
proper  time  comes.  What  's  the  shortest 
limit  for  people  to  get  engaged?  S'pose 
we  have  got  to  go  through  all  the  fuss  of 
an  engagement,  haven't  we?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that. 
It  's  so  commonplace.  I  've  thought  of 
something  that  you  don't  know.  I  'm 
sure  of  it.     What 's  my  name? " 

"Miri  —  no,  it  isn't,  by  Jove!  Wait 
half  a  second,  and  it  '11  come  back  to  me. 
You  aren't  —  you  can't?  Why,  those 
old  tales  —  before  I  went  to  school !  I  *ve 
never  thought  of  'em  from  that  day  to 
this.  Are  you  the  original,  only  Annieaw- 
louise?" 

"It  was  what  you  always  called  me 
ever  since  the  beginning.  Oh!  We  've 
turned  into  the  avenue,  and  we  must  be 
an  hour  late." 


THE  BRUSHWOOD   BOY       73 

"What  does  it  matter?  The  chain 
goes  as  far  back  as  those  days  ?  It  must, 
of  course  —  of  course  it  must.  I  've  got 
to  ride  round  with  this  pestilent  old  bird 
—  confound  him ! ' ' 

"  '  "Ha!  ha!"  said  the  duck,  laugh- 
ing '  —  do  you  remember  that  f ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  do  —  fiower-pots  on  my  feet, 
and  all.  We  've  been  together  all  this 
while;  and  I  've  got  to  say  good-bye  to 
you  till  dinner.  Sure  I  '11  see  you  at 
dinner-time?  Sure  you  won't  sneak  up 
to  your  room,  darling,  and  leave  me  all 
the  evening?    Good-bye,  dear,  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  Boy,  good-bye.  Mind  the 
arch!  Don't  let  Rufus  bolt  into  his 
stables.  Good-bye.  Yes,  I  '11  come  down 
to  dinner ;  but  —  what  shall  I  do  when  I 
see  you  in  the  light!" 


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